


His Serenity

by esama



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Do not repost, Don't copy to another site, Identity Porn, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Outsider, Prostitution, Time Travel, Venezia | Venice, courtesan Desmond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-09-14 05:11:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16906731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esama/pseuds/esama
Summary: In which Desmond does what he must to manage in time not his own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Proofread credit to Nimadge, many thanks.
> 
> Background music: [【Gu Qin】Upwards To The Moon -Ashes Of Love OST](https://youtu.be/aHZweHzkUzA)

Across from Leonardo's workshop in Venice, there is an enclosed courtyard that faces the canal of Rio de San Stin. There is no door into the courtyard, the wall of stone and metal is nearly solid, so the only way to access the courtyard is either by the canal or by climbing over the stone and metal wall that encloses the place, making it to a certain extent private. Even on the canal's side, the entrance is surrounded by walls overgrown with vines, the lack of traffic into the enclosed space having allowed the plants to grow freely.

It's Leonardo's favourite place to hide away from his assistants and, on occasion, patrons. It's also usually the way Ezio approaches his workshop, the few times he doesn't just seem to appear out of thin air. The rooftops in Venice are a little more crowded than they were in Florence, it seems – according to Ezio, there's archers on almost all of them. The streets are better guarded still, which makes traversing the city by the Assassin's usual means difficult. So, instead, he often uses the canals – and with Rio de San Stin  closest to Leonardo's workshop, and this enclosed little courtyard being in between Campo San Stin and the canal…

Meeting him there is one of Leonardo's greatest pleasures in Venice – and for a city with so many delights and vices to indulge in, that's saying something.

Ezio wouldn't be there tonight, of course not – he would be in Monteriggioni by now, having headed back to see his family not a fortnight ago. Still, making his way into the courtyard Leonardo feels his heart pound with excitement. It's not precisely _illegal_ to be climbing walls as Ezio does, but it's… not exactly approved, either. Leonardo might not be able to scale whole buildings and cathedral walls as Ezio does, but there is still an edge of thrill there that Leonardo takes guilty pleasure in – even if the short climb and ensuing drop into the courtyard knocks the breath out of him.

Sometimes, when making weapons for Assassins or decoding their mysterious Codex pages, pretending he doesn't understand where they lead to, Leonardo wonders what it might have been like, had his life led down another path. The secrets are so enticing and Ezio makes it all seem so easy, so simple. Leonardo could have been an Assassin, surely, with training and dedication anyone could do it.

Then he climbs a wall and decides that no, painting and building suit him just fine.

Laughing softly to himself as he catches his breath, Leonardo quickly looks back beyond the metal wall, brushing aside leaves of the vines crawling all over the metalwork. The square is empty, it being fairly late in the night. He'd been blessed with relatively quiet section of the city, with no taverns and no bordellos nearby – when the night comes, it's almost silent here, the streets and canals growing quiet. It's lovely, if a little lonely.

Though lonely is precisely what he craves for tonight.

Brushing at his doublet to ease away the creases his little climb caused, Leonardo turns to the opening leading into the canal of Rio de San Stin, and steps towards it. The moon has already risen above Venice, and there are only few specks of clouds above – and at this hour, just for a moment, the moon hovers above the narrow canal just so that it reflects off the surface. It's beautiful – and the most excellent excuse to get away, really.

In his workshop, there is a big old painting waiting to be finished and Leonardo thinks he might tear his hair out if he has to look at the thing a moment longer. _Adoration of the Magi_. Bah. And they said "Paint it just like your master did," too, which is hardly inspiring. The damn thing has been dominating his work space for months now, and Leonardo thinks he would rather set the whole place on fire than put his brush on the thing again.

… no of course he would not, too many projects underway, too many unfinished pieces. And there are his assistants to consider too, whose comfort and livelihood he had to concern himself with, and their housing in some cases. But oh, how tempted he is at times.

Sighing, Leonardo sits on the edge of the canal, letting his feet hang upon the water below – after checking it's clean, of course. It usually is, here, the courtyard keeps the area clean as it makes the canal near inaccessible from this angle, but in Venice you never know what people throw into the waters. At least it's rained recently, so the smell isn't quite as fetid…

There are distant sounds of revelry that float over the waters like ghosts of sounds. A man, laughing, a woman singing few notes before breaking into shrill giggles. A dog, barking. The sound of water dominates everything, faint waves brushing the sides of brickwork, gently bobbing the tied up gondolas against the stone, creating wooden echoes. Abruptly, Leonardo wishes he had a harp, or a lute. It would get him shouted at, probably, but there's a certain rhythm to the waves, it would do splendidly for accompaniment…

It's a lovely night, now that he's out of the workshop. Lonely and lovely.

He should paint the canals. Or a map, yes, a map of Venice would be an interesting project. He has spent some time studying the construction of Venice's man made islands, marvelling the engineering that had gone into them. Accidental, incidental or guided by some divine inspiration, whichever it was, there is the genius that lives in roots of Venice that he wishes he could've seen in its infancy. They say that thousand years ago Venice was little more than a swamp – now it is one of the greatest cities, and it sits upon ocean water… to have been there during the building would have surely been something magnificent.

Leonardo entertains himself with imagining the city being built, island by island, brick by brick, how it grew from nothing into its current splendour and sighs. Venice has its problems, but it has its remarkable benefits too. More cities could benefit from such easy access to water. And easy management of waste, even if it makes the air ghastly on drier days…

He's brought out of his musings by a sound behind him, which makes his heart skip and his breath catch. A breath drawn sharply and then released in a sigh. _Ezio_ he thinks first, coming from above rather than from the canal. But no, Ezio isn't in the city, and the sound hadn't come from above, but rather at his own level – from the corner of the courtyard. There is someone there with him.

Quickly Leonardo turns to look and, for a moment, he doesn't see. Then the moonlight catches on something that shimmers, golden thread on silk, creating streak of light in the shadows. A shape, hidden in the corner, under the training vines that hang loosely by the wall. There is a man sitting there, curled up in the corner of the courtyard, just coming to from slumber.

For a moment Leonardo just stares. The man blends into the shadows so well he's almost invisible – his garb is dark green, he thinks, though it's hard to tell in the darkness. Then the illusion of invisibility is broken by flash of eyes, opening, the sclera startlingly white against otherwise darker skin.

The man blinks, lifts his head, and then stares at him, expressionless. Then his eyes widen and he glances around, eyes flashing golden as the moonlight hits them.

"Hello?" Leonardo offers, cautious. The man isn't a native venetian, that's obvious by the darker colour of his skin alone, never mind the cloth. Silk isn't unusual in Venice, certainly, but the cut of the man's clothing is clearly Ottoman in design. "Lovely night, isn't it?"

The man doesn't answer, glancing at him and then slowly rising to his feet. The robes he wears are even finer than Leonardo had first realised – beautiful silk embroidered with golden thread, the fabric rich and plentiful. The man tugs at the front of the robes as he looks around and Leonardo's eyes are drawn to his hand – it's even darker than the dark green silk, darker than the man's face. It's actually black.

The man also has a sword at his side.

Leonardo has spent enough time amongst well armed and often nervous individuals to know the man's body language, and to guess at his purpose. The courtyard is enclosed and hidden, and even so the man had taken the most sheltered spot in it for his place of resting. He is hiding, perhaps even running from something. And likely being woken by a random man is not going to soothe the man's nerves much.

So, when Leonardo rises, he does it slowly, keeping his hands well in view to make sure the man sees he is unarmed. "I did not mean to awaken you," he says slowly. "I'm sorry for disturbing your rest."

The man looks at him, frowns, and looks away. By his searching eyes and creasing forehead it's obvious he's thinking of something. Running, perhaps – he's considering the walls, the canals, and then tugging at his clothes again. But he is not going for his curved sword, which Leonardo takes as a good sign.

"Do you speak Italian?" he asks carefully. "I'm sorry to say I don't know a single word of Turkish. Um," he hesitates for a moment and then tries, awkwardly, a language he only knows in writing. "Do you speak Arabic?"

That makes the man look at him sharply – and then, obviously, he regrets doing it, looking away with a grimace. The man clears his throat, hesitates, and then says, begrudgingly, "Yes," and nothing more.

"I believe you are new to Venice?" Leonardo says slowly – as much is obvious anyway. "Are you in some trouble, friend?"

The man frowns at him, as if not quite understanding. "Say that again?" he says then, and the disparity of accents is obvious – the man's Arabic flows much smoother than Leonardo's awkward attempts.

"Apologies," Leonardo says slowly, as clearly as he can. "I know Arabic only in theory – I have spoken it only little. Are you in trouble, friend?"

The Ottoman Turk tugs at his robes again. "That obvious, is it?" he asks, glancing over Leonardo and then looking away.

"I have seen trouble before," Leonardo says. "Hiding in shadows of abandoned courtyard is fairly noticeable."

The man frowns and nods at that but says nothing, looking only awkward. And even now he is not reaching for his sword. Leonardo is standing with his back to the canal, it would be easy to knock him into the water, but the Ottoman Turk doesn't even stand in a particularly hostile way. If anything, he looks still a bit cornered, even though he's armed and Leonardo isn't.

Considering the company Leonardo usually keeps, it's almost a welcome change, really.

"Perhaps I can help?" Leonardo offers. "My name is Leonardo da Vinci – my workshop is just across the square there," he points. "I know some people – if you are in trouble, they might be able to assist."

The man looks at him, his expression openly surprised and then it changes into mix of emotions, hesitant and almost warm. "You don't even know who I am," he says. "You don't know what trouble I am in."

"Knowing some of the trouble my friends get into, it can't be that bad, surely," Leonardo says, looking him over. An Ottoman Turk in Venice isn't exactly a rare sight – Turkish ships and Turkish traders are common enough by the harbour that most everyone can recognise them, even more recent additions to the city like Leonardo. Judging by his clothes, this man is no sailor. Merchant, perhaps, though he doesn't stand with the pride of a rich man either. Rich robes aside, there's something humble about him. He's almost gaunt, really, under the stubble on his cheeks and beneath the short shorn hair.

Perhaps he'd stolen his clothing, perhaps not. He doesn't set Leonardo's instincts off, either way – and long years of knowing Ezio and various other assassins, he likes to think he's honed his senses for dangerous people well enough to tell by now.

"You don't look like a bad or dangerous man," Leonardo offers sincerely. "You look lost, friend."

The man doesn't answer at first, looking at him with mixed expression. Then he sighs and his shoulders slump. "You can say that again," the Turk says and looks down at his clothes. "I haven't any money to repay you, if you…"

"Never mind that," Leonardo says, warming up to this sudden, unexpected bit of intrigue fast. With Ezio gone, it had looked like it would be quiet couple of moths – but perhaps not, after all. "Please – can I trouble you for your name?"

The Turk hesitates and then coughs. "It's – Desmond," he says awkwardly, and watches him for his reaction.

"Dez-mund?" Leonardo repeats, awkwardly. The pronunciation is odd, somehow.

The man relaxes a little. "Yes," he says and offers a smile – and it lights up his whole face, bringing Leonardo into sudden, breathtaking realisation of how handsome the man is, even with half of his face in shadows. "Pleasure to meet you."

"I'm sure the pleasure will be all mine," Leonardo says faintly and clears his throat. "What trouble ails you then, Dezmund?"

"What doesn't?" the man asks and looks down to his clothes. He tugs at the labels of his robe and sighs. "There are some – people after me," he admits and looks up from himself somewhat ruefully. "And I might have snuck my way into Venice without much of a permission or invitation."

"Ah," Leonardo answers. That much had been rather obvious, considering the man's place of hiding. "You stowed away onboard a ship, I assume?"

"Yes," Dezmund answers, rueful, and finally steps out of the shadows and into the moonlight. He's startlingly tall, Leonardo notices. He's not a short man himself, he only knows a few taller – and yet this man towers over him, easily several inches taller. That, Leonardo muses, cannot help the man in hiding.

"To escape from something, I assume?" Leonardo says.

Dezmund makes a face, half a grimace. "Yes," he agrees again and looks at Leonardo. With his face fully in light, he's quite the specimen to look at. His features are long and lean and fit for a painting. The only thing that mars them is a faint scar – which Leonardo almost misses entirely, as it sits in such a familiar place. "What?" Dezmund asks, as Leonardo stares.

"I'm sorry," Leonardo says, momentarily confused and fascinated – what are the odds of two men with the exact same scar? "These people that are after you, do they know you are here?"

"Not here, precisely," Dezmund says and looks to the canal. "But they know that I came to Venice – there were Turks in the harbour, searching ships coming from Cyprus – like the one I stowed away on. I barely got away before they searched the ship."

"You come from Cyprus then?"

"By Cyprus," Dezmund agrees and shakes his head. "I guess there will be reward for finding me," he says ruefully and casts a glance at Leonardo. "If they haven't already started posting posters…"

"I am no mercenary, Messere, nor a bounty hunter," Leonardo says quickly. Honestly, if he wasn't tempted by Ezio's massive fifty thousand florin bounty, he doubts whatever they'd pay for this man's head wouldn interest him either. Though, in light of a bounty… it does make him wonder about the man's crime. "And you do not look much like a criminal."

Dezmund bows his head slightly at that and then, at the sound of waves being cut by a gondola, he ducks into the shadows of the vines. Leonardo looks at him and then turns to Rio de San Stin, to watch a humming, dark clothed gondolier slowly row his boat closer.

The man yawns, "Good evening, Messere," to him with slightly slurred voice as he rows the gondola forward. There is a man and woman sitting on the boat, the latter asleep in the arms of former while the man attempts to seek the bottom of his bottle. All three look and, Leonardo imagines, smell like they have been drinking.

"Good night to you," Leonardo bids them faintly, while Dezmund all but fades into the shadows, with only the glimmer of golden thread showing in the shadows.

The gondolier and his two mostly asleep passengers move along, up the Rio de San Stin and towards Rio de Frari, likely on their way home from night of revelry. It takes a moment, and the sound of the gondola bumping into an empty boat tied to the side of the canal seems to echo forever into the night, but eventually the sound of them passing and the light of their lantern fades away.

Dezmund breathes out slowly.

"Venice entertains a busy night life," Leonardo offers apologetically in Arabic. "Though this area is quiet during the night, it will be busier come morning – the cathedral near invites traffic, even outside mass."

"Not a safe place to stay, then," Dezmund murmurs.

Leonardo hesitates. He'd like to invite the man to his workshop, he finds. It's safe enough and has its windows ordinarily shuttered for the night – and unlike in Florence, in Venice he has just about managed to keep his reputation clean, so far. Ezio is warier and more subtle these days, when it comes to implicating his friends – his enemies in Venice don't yet know to connect them together. His workshop isn't quite under the same guard it was in Florence.

And he would rather keep it that way, too.

"Dezmund, please don't take offence, but… what are you wanted for?" Leonardo asks. "And do you think that the word of you and whatever you have done has already made its way to the guards and heralds of Venice?"

Dezmund hesitates, bowing his head a little. "I –" he starts to say and then trails away, uneasy. "No, this is stupid, I shouldn't bring you into this, you don't even know me," he says then and shakes his head. "I'm sorry – you should forget about me, forget ever meeting me," he says and looks at the canal. "And I should go."

"Go where?" Leonardo asks slowly, giving him a dubious look. "Do you know anything of Venice?"

Dezmund opens his mouth and then sighs. "Not as much as I thought I did," he admits ruefully. "The city is – bigger than I expected it to be."

"So everyone says," Leonardo agrees with mild smile. It was certainly much bigger than he expected, and he'd seen maps. "And I think you have nary a friend to guide you here, or anyone you know." The man wouldn't have slept in a courtyard if he had friends, surely.

Dezmund sighs and gives him a look. "That doesn't make it alright to get random people into trouble," he says, his Arabic a little looser now. "This has nothing to do with you."

No, but the man had piqued his interests. "Can I not help a man in need out of the goodness of my heart?" Leonardo asks.

"You have no idea what I've done, or who's after me," Dezmund says grimly.

"You don't seem like a bad person. Did you kill someone?" Leonardo asks.

Dezmund hesitates. "… Yes," he says then, watching Leonardo warily. "I killed several people."

Oh. Leonardo blinks and then swallows. Ezio has killed hundreds of people, it might have complexly thrown off Leonardo's morals when it came to these types of things, but… "Did they… deserve to die?" he asks slowly.

"Probably not," Dezmund says and then considers. "Not all of them, anyway. Some of them might have."

"… And so you are wanted for murder?" Leonardo clarifies thoughtfully, a little worriedly now. With Ezio he can justify the violence and the death, Ezio has more than a just cause for what he does and he never bloodies his blade on innocent men, but…

"Thinking of turning me in, after all?" Dezmund asks and actually smiles a little, though it's a mirthless sort of smile. "I'll understand if you do, but I'm not going down quietly or without a fight. I'm sorry."

And still he does not reach for his sword. Leonardo relaxes again and shakes his head. "No, I suppose you won't," Leonardo says and considers him. "You don't seem like a murderer," he says. "Why did you kill those men, then? Was it revenge? Self defence? An accident?"

Dezmund arches his brow. "You know, I don't think you're reacting to this how you should," he says slowly, shaking his head. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," Leonardo says simply. "It does."

The Turk is quiet for a moment, watching him, the faint hint of a smile on his full lips fading away. "I guess it was self defence," he says then. "I was somewhere I shouldn't have been and I got involved in something I shouldn't have gotten involved in. They would have killed me or captured and imprisoned me. I had to run. There were people in my way, and I killed them to get away."

Leonardo considers the words at length, eying the man's expression. He knows enough swindlers and deceivers to know a liar when he sees one, and Dezmund doesn't seem like a liar. He's omitting things, of course, but Leonardo suspects it's more to his benefit than Dezmund's. The man doesn't want to involve him.

"It sounds to me like you need a place to hide," Leonardo says. "I can help you."

"Why would you?" Dezmund asks, frowning a little. "I have nothing to pay you back with and you don't know anything about me."

"I know that all this time you've been armed with a sword and have not even touched it," Leonardo says. "I know that I know too much already, and yet you have not taken a blade to me. I think if I walked away now, shouting for guards, you would rather run than silence me. Wouldn't you?"

Dezmund frowns. "You –" he starts to say, obviously attempting to excuse himself… and then trails away, looking a little frustrated. "You can't know that."

Leonardo smiles a little. "I know enough bad men to know a good man when I see one," he says.

"You gain nothing from helping me."

"A favour, perhaps," Leonardo says. "I've found being owed favours is the most valuable currency you can have." Especially when it comes to dangerous people.

"Ah," Dezmund says, and thinks about it for a moment. "Alright," he says then. "For a favour, then."

Leonardo nods, his heart leaping a little with excitement. "Well then," he says and holds out his hand. "Would you like to join me in my bottega, Messere Dezmund?"


	2. Chapter 2

Dezmund steps into the workshop carefully, one hand grasping at the front of his silk robes while he seeks support from the doorframe with the other. Inside it's dim, with only a couple of candles still lit and the fire in the fireplace having burned down to cinder – the assistants had not added more wood, it seems, sensing the work for the day long since done. Which, Leonardo muses, it was.

Usually one of them would be sleeping on the cot by the fireplace, though, anticipating him working during the night, but there's no one there now. They must have escaped in his absence, to have drinks outside. Just as well, really. While Leonardo's assistants are sworn to secrecy, and usually know better than to blabber… this tends to only apply to Ezio and Leonardo's more illegal pursuits. They would not risk their own livelihood by giving away their master and risking his imprisonment, after all – that buys their discretion, more often than not. Dezmund, however…

Dezmund is new, and might not be treated with the same, livelihood-bound reverence.

"Apologies for the mess," Leonardo says, not quite self-conscious – his workshop is always a mess, and it's been visited by the highest and the lowest of Venice, and he's never bothered to feel shame for it. But Dezmund doesn't quite fit in his bottega. "Please, sit wherever. May I bring you something to drink?"

Dezmund stands by the stairs, looking around with a strange expression, almost wonder-filled. His eyes linger on the artworks on display, half finished – or barely started in some cases – and then rise up to eye the flying machine that hangs from the rafters.

"I wouldn't say no to a drink," the man says, quiet, and steps down the last few steps carefully. Underneath the hem of his robes, his footwear is just as fine as the robes – though slightly dirtier, water-stained. So, Leonardo finds, is the hem of the silken robes – water-stained, as if he'd waded in dirty water.

Shame. The robe is exquisite in its foreignness.

Leonardo turns to grab a bottle by his worktable. No hope for clean goblets here, but he does have a single fine goblet of Venetian cristallo glass – used more for modelling for paintings than for actual drinking – which is not only clean but polished.

Dezmund accepts it, blinking slowly, in his right hand and Leonardo stops. His fingers – they aren't only dark, as the skin of people from Africa might be dark. They're black – like coal.

Leonardo stares a moment and then catches himself – it would be terribly rude to ask or point out the obvious, so he doesn't. He opens the bottle instead, and pours. The cristallo looks delicate, held in the grasp of the black fingers, but Dezmund holds it gently, exerting no pressure. Though there's a glimmer of light catching the edges of the glass, no light reflects on his black skin – the wine casts no red shadows on it. Strange.

"It burned," Dezmund says. "My hand. It doesn't hurt, but I know it looks kind of – awful."

Leonardo clears his throat. "I didn't mean to stare," he says and pours a glass for himself as well. "To your health – and to the recovery of your hand," he adds.

Dezmund nods, "To health," he says and takes a slow sip, sighing and then taking another, slightly deeper one.

"So," Leonardo says, after having a drink himself to soothe his suddenly confused nerves. "First things first – you will need a disguise, I imagine. That robe is noticeable."

"Yes," Dezmund agrees, looking down. "I guess you're right."

"I'm not sure I have anything as fine as that, but you're welcome to anything that might fit," Leonardo says. "If nothing else, I have a cloak that might cover it all –"

He stops to stare as the tall Turk sets the cristallo goblet down and opens the robe he is wearing, easing delicate fastenings open with hands with mismatched skins, one black and one tanned but much paler. The work of his fingers together, their colours so starkly different, is mesmerising, as they part the two halves of the robe's lapels, to reveal a white linen tunic that reaches his knees.

"Don't think this is much less noticeable, but – it's little less expensive looking, I guess," Dezmund says and folds the dark green silk over his arm, reaching for the wine again.

"I – yes, I reckon it is," Leonardo says. As the man moves, the thin linen creases and shifts. His body is slim underneath it. "Right – please, this way, I have a closet of outfits for my models, perhaps there is something fitting."

Dezmund nods, hesitating for a moment before moving to follow him. Leonardo throws the closet doors open and reveals the outfits hung there. Some of them were bought second hand, some stripped from dead, some he suspects were stolen or won in gambling by his assistants. Most of them smell musky and old with disuse – but he is relatively certain he won't have to fear them being moth eaten.

Leonardo considers his guest, standing tall and starkly foreign in his workshop, and swallows, turning back to the clothes. What to swathe over such a frame? He has cloaks, scarves and sheets aplenty, to drape over his assistants as they worked as his models, but very little fine – or long – enough to fit his guest. "Ah…"

"This looks long enough," Dezmund says, and reaches to take out what amounts to little more than a monk's habit, rough and plentiful and utterly beneath the man's stature.

"I'm sure I have something better," Leonardo says quickly. "Something finer – please, that's barely clothing at all."

Dezmund is already pulling it on, easing the thick black cloth over his shoulders and tugging at the fabric to ease it to settle. In it, with his short hair and shorter stubble of beard, he truly looks like a monk, albeit a monk far too beautiful for his profession.

Dangerous thought if there ever was one.

"Are you certain it is quite –" Leonardo starts to ask and then gapes as the man holds out his rich, golden embroidered silk robes at him.

"A robe for a robe," Dezmund says, as Leonardo, in shock more than in acceptance, takes the robe. "It's only fair."

Leonardo would've had to paint a triptych to cover the cost of such a garment. "This is nowhere near fair," he says slowly. "Messere – this is far too expensive –"

"It's ruined anyway. Throw it away if you don't like it," Dezmund says and shakes his head. "It's too dangerous for me to wear, at any rate."

Ah, of course. "Still…" Leonardo hems and haws awkwardly, looking the silk over. It's _beautiful_ , the silk rich and shimmering even in the dim light, the golden embroidery gleaming. The patterns are complex and multilayered, leaves and vines crawling over the dark green – it must have taken seamstresses months to finish.

Without care, Dezmund turns away, sipping his wine. As he moves, the awkward monk's habit slips from his shoulder and he adjusts it absently with one hand. Leonardo, for a moment, craves a paintbrush with surprising ferociousness. In the dim light, Dezmund looks… very well indeed.

Uneasy and confused, Leonardo puts the silk robe away, to figure out what to do with it later. "I, ah, I will keep it safe," he says. Maybe he could save the hem, restore the colour, and then – he has no idea. He can hardly _keep_ such a thing.

"Do whatever you want," Dezmund says and looks at the painting that dominates the workshop, the Adoration of the Magi. He hums with interest, but doesn't comment on it. "So, ah… how exactly do you think you can help me? With my… situation?"

"I know some people in the city, who specialise in going unnoticed," Leonardo says. Ezio had introduced him to Antonio, and through the thieves of Venice he'd gotten to know the rest of the Venice's varied underground – or, perhaps it should be _underwater_ in Venice. "I have done some favours for them, on occasion – favours which I might call in, to secure you a… safe passage, or hideout, or…"

He trails away as Dezmund looks at him, frowning and saying nothing.

"Why did you come to Venice?" Leonardo asks.

The Ottoman Turk turns away, examining the glass in his fingers. The cup is cradled in his palm and he whirls the liquid in it slowly, thinking. "I thought I knew something of Venice," he muses and offers Leonardo a wry smile. "More than I knew of other destinations of the ships in the harbour at the time. It seemed the safest option."

Ah. Venice is a settled trade partner of the Ottoman Empire, so it would be better known than, say, Rome or Genoa. "Venice can be a little overwhelming, but that makes it a good place to hide in," Leonardo comments. "If you know where to hide."

"Yes," Dezmund agrees and casts him a look. "And if you know the language."

"You don't speak a word of Italian, then?"

The Turk sighs and sets the glass down. "I understand some," he admits. "But not as much as I thought, or hoped. The dialect is…" he shakes his head. "Not as easy as I thought."

"No, it wouldn't be," Leonardo agrees, hesitating and then turning to the fireplace, to add a couple of logs to the glowing cinders as he thinks. "Do you have a destination in mind, a place to go, or…" he trails away.

Dezmund doesn't say anything, looking at the Adoration of the Magi in silence, frowning. Leonardo rises again and hesitates.

"I have some connections further inland," Leonardo offers then. "In Milan, in Florence – Rome, if that interests you – "

"I would prefer to stay here," Dezmund says and glances at him. "At least for a start."  

Excellent, a place to start with. "In that case," Leonardo says and steps forward. "We have some options – tell me, Messere Dezmund, do you, can you…" he trails away, trying to think of how to ask it delicately. "I'm sorry, living in Venice can be costly at times – can you – work?"

The man looks at him, seeming almost confused for a moment. Then he smiles. "I can learn," he offers and casts a glance at the painting. "But I doubt I'd be of much use to you here," he says. "I don't know much about art."

Pieces of art rarely need to know what they are – it is enough that they exist to be appreciated. Leonardo coughs to hide his own appreciation. "I'm afraid I doubt I could pay a salary worth your time, at any rate," he says. "But – there are scholars and scribe shops in Venice that might be interested in a translator – Italian and Latin copies of Arabic texts are highly sought after still –"

"That seems a bit public," Dezmund says. "I need to hide, remember?"

"Right, of course," Leonardo says and frowns. "That – that makes things potentially more complicated."

He isn't sure he can just show this man to Antonio's hideout and trust that he'd be well treated. Antonio is highly learned as thieves go, one could even call the man sophisticated, but he is still a thief, and one with a very rebellious and traitorous way of thinking, at that. His thieves are less refined than the man himself is, too, though loyal to the man, they are uncouth and…

And Leonardo isn't sure they would care to cater to a foreigner, no matter how lovely the man is to look at. Not without getting something in return.

"I…" Leonardo hesitates. There is one other he could call an ally in Venice, whose kindness and understanding – and wisdom – Leonardo had very quickly learned to appreciate and even rely on. But Sister Teodora is… what she is.

Oh, if only Ezio was here. Ezio is a murderer, a thief and occasionally a whore worse than Teodora, but he is also son of a gentleman and still carries on with the manner fitting of such – and he has dealt with stranger situations than this. Ezio would know exactly how to deal with this.

Dezmund watches him. "You know, I'll be grateful for just a place to stay for the night," he says. "You don't have to do more than that."

"But I want to," Leonardo says and looks him over. "I'm sorry to say it, but Venice will eat you alive if I leave you like this."

The man blinks and then smiles a little. "I can handle myself," he says with amusement and tugs at the robe Leonardo had given him. "With this I can get around, figure out what I will do next. It's more than I had before."

Leonardo looks him over. The robe hangs loose on him, both too crude and too fine to pass truly for a monk's robe. If anyone examined him closer, what he was underneath it would be immediately revealed. With the way the man stands, too, tall and straight-backed, proud… he'd be singled out in a crowd immediately.

"No, I offered you my help, and I will see it through," Leonardo says, thinking. He doesn't know enough about Ottoman society to remember if prostitution is illegal among them or not, but… "If you are not – prudish, there is someone I can introduce you to, who can help you hide in Venice."

Dezmund tilts his head slightly. "… Prudish," he repeats slowly.

"Ahem, yes," Leonardo says awkward. "She's – not what one might call a respectable woman. But she knows quite a deal more about Venice than I do, and she can… blend in and hide better among its people, than I could ever hope to manage." Leonardo hesitates and then he has to admit. "She's a courtesan, and runs a bordello in the Dorsoduro district."

Dezmond blinks. "Ah," he says, and smiles – and suddenly Leonardo isn't sure he read this man right at all. Where he expected hesitation or awkwardness, there is none. Indeed, the man's smile is wide, even interested. "That sounds promising."

"Does it?" Leonardo asks, faintly surprised.

Dezmund lifts his glass and drains it and Leonardo has to swallow dryly at the movement under the taunt skin of his throat. The man sets the goblet down and turns to him. "Where can I find this courtesan?"

"I – would be happy to take you there," Leonardo manages.

"After you, then," Dezmund says.

* * *

 

Leonardo hires a half asleep gondolier he finds dozing off in his loose gondola. "I need passage to the Dorsoduro district – down Rio de San Margherita. Do you know it?"

The gondolier gives him an irritated look. "Ten lira, upfront – and not a bit less," he says even as he takes his oar and stands up. "And don't you complain by the pace now. It's late and the tide is low, I am not risking my boat for no horny foreigners."

"Ah – my thanks," Leonardo says, stepping down to the gondola and then offering his hand to Dezmund. The man gives him a slight look from under the awkward hood of his habit, but accepts the aid, and Leonardo helps him to step down from the canal's edge and to the gondola. "Take a seat – these things are easy to fall from," Leonardo says under his breath in Arabic and Dezmund takes a seat slowly as Leonardo turns to pay the gondolier's exuberant night rate.

The gondolier counts his coin and then sets his oar into the water, turning the gondola around while Leonardo sits across from Dezmund, to watch him. The man takes Venice in silence, his eyes wide in the shadows of his hood as he adjusts its edge to see past it. His black hand he carefully keeps out of view, which is something at least, but it's still outwardly obvious he's not from around here.

Well, Venice has a lot of travellers, why should this one be more suspicious than most?

Behind Leonardo, the gondolier begins humming a tune in time with his oar as they break out from the narrow canal of Rio de San Stin and into the slightly wider waters of Rio de San Agostin and from there to the Grand Canal. Honestly, it might have been faster walking, but unlike with the canals, Leonardo isn't quite familiar with the narrow, winding streets of Venice – at least with the canals, he can always trust to find his way to the ocean, if nothing else.

The Grand Canal is quiet and calm, the waters almost still. What few ships there are in the canal are all anchored, and there are fewer gondoliers risking the dark waters than during daytime – people drown quite often in Venice during the night, after all. Why this gondolier risked it at all, Leonardo doesn't know. Better not to ask.

"Beautiful, no?" he comments to Dezmund in Arabic.

"Yes," Dezmund agrees quietly. "It's really something."

"Are there are canals where you come from?"

The Turk smiles and bows his head, hiding his face from the moonlight. "Nothing like this," Dezmund says and then falls quiet.

Leonardo eyes him thoughtfully and then looks ahead. The Gondolier isn't paying them much mind, peering into the darkness and steering them past a free floating gondola before moving back towards the wall of buildings that flanks the canal. Soon, they're easing their way into another, narrower canal, and towards Rio de San Margherita.

Leonardo is privately a little proud, for knowing at least this much of Venice by heart. Though, how much pride a man should take about knowing the quickest route to a bordello…

"There," the gondolier says. "You want to go further, there better be more coin in it for me."

"This will do splendidly," Leonardo says, and motions Dezmund to stand. "You have our thanks."

"Have a lovely evening, gentlemen," the gondolier says, snorting, and as soon as Leonardo has stumbled off and onto the rocky steps of the side of the canal, the man turns his boat around and heads back the way they came.

Leonardo glances Dezmund over to make sure his disguise is in place – it is – and then motions him to follow. "We aren't far now. This way."

Night is much more lively here than it is in the San Polo district – there are drunken men and women on the streets, celebrating as if it's the carnivale, going in and out of bordellos and taverns and carrying with them the smell and after-effects of their drinking. The streets are watched by courtesans and thieves both – one group beckoning customers while the other sizes up victims.

They spot Leonardo immediately – and just as quickly dismiss him. He's common enough sight – and well enough known – to be afforded the courtesy of being left alone here. The same couldn't be said about Dezmund though, unknown as he is, so Leonardo whispers to him, "Stay close," as he leads him down the winding streets and towards La Rosa della Virtù.

Dezmund says nothing – though his face turns for a moment to a group of courtesans, and Leonardo can see his scarred lips stretching into a smile.

 _Ah_ , Leonardo thinks, and refuses to feel disappointed. "Here," he says, and motions to the front of Teodora's bordello, with its virginally white drapery and roses on its windowsills. "Let us hope the Madame herself is awake."

Dezmund looks up and his eyes are interested in the shadows of the roughly made cowl, "Let's hope," he agrees, and Leonardo knocks.


	3. Chapter 3

It is quiet, as nights in the La Rosa della Virtù go. Dora is sitting by the window, her feet up and in her lap a battered lute, the spoil of a penniless minstrel they had been forced to send running with only the clothes on his back – she is getting quite handy at playing it, despite not knowing her notes in the slightest. Little Greta is sitting on the floor by her, playing with her toys, quiet and pretty and to Teodora's eye much better fed than she had been when she came to them with her mother. At six years of age, Greta is as sheltered as she can be, in a brothel – and she makes for a splendid test for the clientele. Pay too keen an attention to her, and…

Well. Teodora is a courtesan and a nun, but she is also an Assassin, and her prey might not be as grandiose as that of young and lively Ezio, bless his passionate heart, but they are no less vile – and, she thinks, far more satisfying to put to eternal rest.

Teodora passes by Dora and Greta with a smile, and checks the ledger. Three patrons in occupancy – Messere Bazzoli, a regular and much liked by the girls, Messere Sabbadin, a little less liked and far more particular, but a well paying man, and the young and lovely Messere Capello, who favours Imelda with an almost sad passion and would marry her at the slightest provocation, the poor boy.

All nights after the Carnivale seem quiet, Teodora muses, closing the ledger and moving to check the windows. There might be a few more customers, but it is only the start of the week, and aside from certain regulars, most of their clientele would be paid towards the end of the week – by which time, her house would be busy indeed, for Friday and Saturday until Sunday, when, naturally, there would be the service.

Teodora is about to move to the upper floors to check up on the girls at work – and the ones that are not – when a knock resounds in the front hall. Dora glances up at her from her lute and then smoothly stands up, even as Teodora descends the few steps of the stairs she'd taken. Dora checks her bosom, her hair, glances at Greta to make sure to know where she is, and then opens the door.

"Leonardo!" she cries in delight, and Teodora's professional smile melts into a more honest one, as the artists slips in with a bow and a sheepish smile, a soul of mischievous grace.

"Ah, dear one," Teodora says, holding out a hand to greet him – knowing he is not here as a customer, but as a friend. Though Teodora once had a lad whom Leonardo patronised, it has been a year since – and Celio had since found place as the apprentice of a shoemaker, and had put the life of pleasure behind him. It's a pity, really – sometimes Leonardo comes across so very sad and lonely. "Wonderful to see you, as always."

"Teodora," Leonardo says, taking her hands, both of them, and then kissing both her knuckles, warm and friendly. "My apologies for not sending word ahead, this came upon me quite suddenly," he says apologetically and then looks back.

He had not came alone.

Teodora is not one for first impressions – she, like all her kind, knows that how man looks means very little. The most delicate and beautiful men might be monstrous aberrations beneath the surface, while a man cursed with disfigurations might be the kindest and gentlest you will ever encounter. Looks matter little – it is the _spirit_ that matters.

And yet, she sees the rough robes of a monk first, and for a moment, she feels… a myriad of conflicting emotions.

Of course, monks may patronise whores the same as any men – and she judges them no more than she judges lovely Leonardo. But she had been raised a Catholic nun, and to respect men, to respect monks and priests, and though her beliefs are different now, some of it still lingers. She sees a man in the monk's robes at her doorstep, and for a moment an old, resilient shame rears its ugly head.

Is this the dawn of her judgement, however unjust – had the Church finally reached its limit with her heresies, and was the man there to judge her ways, to find her wanting?

A young woman's fear, hard to shake – of course it cannot be such thing. Leonardo would _never_ bring such things upon her. And on a second glance she sees – it is not a proper monk's cowl, the make is all wrong, and there is no rosary in sight. The man does not move like a monk either – neither humble nor proud, the man steps in with the ease of a man who neither believes he is sinful nor that he is above sin, like so many men of god do.

And oh, he's quite the looker too. She can see how he might have caught Leonardo's eyes – the man is tall, dark, and quite unapologetically beautiful, with fine, clean lined features. Young, in his third decade, fourth at most, with short dark hair and a hint of stubble and eyes like molten amber. Under the robes Teodora can see little – only the collar of a tunic and the glimpse of a shoe, the first of which is wool and the second too nondescript to place. Leather boot, perhaps - 

"Teodora," Leonardo says, quietly, and motions to the man. "This is Dezmund. And I am afraid I have a favour to ask of you."

Already quite intrigued, Teodora glances at Dora and nods to her. "Would you mind the front, Dora?" she says, lifting her chin a little – a signal.

"May I lock the doors to put Greta to bed? It is late," Dora says, moving towards her daughter and pulling her close. Greta makes a face but rises to her mother's side.

Teodora glances at Dezmund, to gauge his reaction. He glances at the girl and then looks back to Teodora – his expression is complicated, he understands the child's nature, but he is neither interested nor places judgement.

Good. Teodora smiles. "Of course, Dora. Please," she says to Leonardo and Dezmund, holding out her hands. "Join me in the drawing room, where we may talk in peace."

Leonardo nods, bowing his head briefly and then speaking to Dezmund – in a different language. _"This is Teodora, she is in charge and owns this establishment,"_ he says to the man, his accent awkward but recognizably Arabic. _"I'm sure she can help you, and if not, then hopefully direct us to the right way."_

 _"Sounds promising,"_ Dezmund says, his voice light and calm. _"After you."_

Teodora leads the two men into her drawing room, her heart afire with curiosity. Leonardo had come to her with pleas for favours before – which he had always paid in kind. They had usually been simple ones – information, aid in warding off an official who grew too suspicious of Leonardo's – or more commonly his assistants' and students' – activities, and of course he patronised her girls, and when she had them, her boys as models for his students' work. It was a good and easy work, and there were always volunteers. Even if the models might at most get a charcoal sketch of themselves for their troubles along with their pay, it was still quite the thing, to have one's likeness captured by such skilled artisans.

This does not seem so simple an issue. A mysterious man, hiding in monk's robes, speaking Arabic alone… quite interesting.

Teodora takes a moment to prepare a tray of glasses and bottles, just in case there are nerves to be soothed. The men sit on the couches in the drawing room, the mysterious Dezmund eying her bookshelves with interest, while Leonardo fiddles with his hands, a nervous habit of his. He's quite excited.

"You are always welcome here, Leonardo, and I am always happy to help you in whatever way I can.  No need to be so anxious. Whatever this is, I am sure we can come to some sort of solution," Teodora says, setting the tray and motioning to it. "Drinks, gentlemen?"

 _"Dezmund, would you like some wine?"_ Leonardo asks, again in Arabic.

 _"Thank you, no,"_ the man says, reaching instead to take a single dried persimmon from a bowl already sitting on the low table. _"I haven't eaten in a while, and the last glass I had already went to my head. Tell her thank you, though,"_ he adds, leaning back again with the fruit, watching her.

While Leonardo translates for him, Teodora keeps her eyebrows from lifting, if just barely. "Well then," she says and sits across from them. Not Muslim, then, since he apparently has had a drink. Interesting indeed. "What is it that you require help with, Leonardo?"

Leonardo is not by any means a foolish man, Teodora thinks. He is occasionally mischievous and not beyond playing tricks, but he is not as innocent or naïve as some might think, going by his open manner and face. In truth, the man is quite sly, under the pretty blue eyes and blond hair. Which, in turn, makes it quite curious how fast he trusted that man Dezmund at his word.

Is this finally Leonardo's loins, leading him beyond the reasons of his head? Usually the man is quite careful with his inclinations – and Teodora had seen what some might do, to lead men like Leonardo astray. There had been boys, no doubt, tempted to lead the man into a world of trouble for little gain for themselves. Leonardo is ordinarily savvy for such things – he has a nose for both trickery and honesty. Why else would such a gentle, bright soul deal with so many murderers, whores and thieves? Somehow, the man has mastered the means of navigating in the shadows, all the while clinging to his own light.

Now Dezmund Teodora cannot read quite yet, but she can scent danger on him. To have admitted to murder, to having enemies, to being _chased,_  that is bad enough, but the man regrets none of it, feels shame for none of it. Looking at him with an Assassin's discerning eye, Teodora can see – the man can and will kill if need be, and he will spill not a tear over it.

But murder is one thing – and not the reason why this man is dangerous. Teodora knows enough murderers to not balk from them. There is something else there.

Dezmund doesn't speak, he doesn't try to push himself forward, he only watches, and Teodora knows he also sees. His eyes never stray below her jaw, and when he smiles, it's understanding, not lustful.

"A thrilling tale, I'm sure," Teodora says and leans in to pour herself a drink. "And I can see now why you hide in a robe. But what can a mere whore do in such a situation?"

She speaks it in Italian, and Leonardo looks confused and a little hurt at her apparent brush-off – but Dezmund only smiles. _"You understand Arabic,"_ the man says – in Arabic.

"You understand Italian," she answers, in the said language.

 _"I don't speak it very well,"_ Dezmund admits, keeping to his language. _"I'm sorry – if this is alright with you, I'd rather keep to speaking Arabic, as I know how to pronounce it better."_

"That suits splendidly for me – I have been told my Arabic pronunciation is rather… lacking," Teodora says, smiling.

Leonardo looks between them, and then sighs. "I thought you could understand the language, but I couldn't be sure," he admits to Teodora. "This is good news. I was afraid communication might be an issue."

Teodora smiles fondly to him and then turns her eyes back to Dezmund. "Issues of communication aside… what is it that you require of me?" She asks, crossing one leg over the other under her hems and tilting her upper body slightly, her arms snugly under her breasts. Still, Dezmund doesn't look down. "If you look to sneak out of the city, there are others who might serve you better, which implies… you aren't looking to leave, but to stay – only in secrecy."

 _"That was the idea, yes,"_ Dezmund says and glances at Leonardo.

"We were – or rather, I was hoping that you could…" Leonardo clears his throat. "Offer some guidance as to how a wanted man might stay and work in Venice, and not be found."

Teodora arches a brow at that, eying Dezmund up and down. Tall, handsome, dark. Noticeable, far too noticeable. There'd be no hiding the man with these types of descriptions – except under a disguise. That alone would not be enough to manage in Venice, for she is a demanding and wealthy city, which does not make her kind.

"Do you have any profession, Messere Dezmund?" Teodora asks, stroking a back of a finger under her chin, thinking. He is a foreigner too, and cannot speak Italian – in that she trusts his word, for now. Situating such a man would be difficult even in the best of circumstances.

 _"I have… skills,"_ the man says warily. _"Do you have something in mind?"_

"What kind of skills, then?" Teodora asks, and when he does not answer, she prompts with, "Do you have a talent as a craftsman?"

Dezmund considers it for a moment, looking away. Then he shakes his head. _"Nothing I could use as a way to earn money,"_ he says. _"Even if I could go out in public."_

He doesn't carry himself like a peasant or a serf, that's true enough. "Can you read, write?" she asks.

 _"I'm not… confident about my skills in reading or writing Italian or Latin,"_ Dezmund says slowly. _"But I can learn."_

"But you can write in Arabic?" Teodora clarifies and then considers. Not useful, aside from perhaps giving her an opportunity to learn the language better – which, though useful to her personally, would not be enough to earn a living.

"You can fight, and you can kill," Teodora then says and glances at the sword at his side. It's a fine blade, Ottoman make, in the intricately decorated sheath. "How well?"

Dezmund looks at her levelly. _"_ Very _well."_

Well enough to impress an Assassin? Teodora leans back and sips her wine, considering the young man. Oh, why not – sometimes she too deserves entertainment, does she not. "Well then," she says and nods to him. "Perform for me."

_"I'm… sorry?"_

"You have a fine sword. Take it up and perform swordplay for me – show me your skills."

Leonardo looks a little awkward, looking between her and Dezmund – even a little sorry. Of course he wouldn't have told this stranger what she is, and now he regrets it, having put the man in an awkward position. Teodora doesn't smile – she only waits, watching expectantly until Dezmund rises from where he is sitting, leaving the awkward robe behind.

Underneath, he wears a long tunic in the ottoman style, and judging by the bagginess of the leg wear, it is also of the same origins. A slim man, all told – but not weak, not with those hands, those arms. Teodora gives a curious look at the man's right hand – it looks as if someone had applied a tattoo needle to every shred of its skin, turning the whole thing inky black. It's almost beautiful, if very strange.

And then Dezmund picks a dried persimmon from the bowl on the table.

What follows is not an inconsiderable display of sword skill. The man throws the persimmon in the air, and in single stroke he has it pierced at the end of his gently curved kijil sword. Then Dezmund, moving into a proper swordplay stance, swings his sword upward, slicing through the side of the persimmon but leaving it intact on the other side. While the dried fruit is in the air, he turns his hands and brings his sword down, and then swiftly across, and for a finish, up at an angle. Each stroke is a hit.

The dry persimmon falls to the floor in eight pieces.

"Oh," Leonardo breathes, while Dezmund smoothly moves to his beginning stance, checking his blade. Not a mark on the edge.

Teodora had expected stances, not trick play. That was a display fit for the carnival, or a exhibition in some drawing room of lords and ladies, an evening's exotic entertainment – add a few more tricks to the man's repertoire, which he might even already possess, and he'd make quite the performer. No, this man is no amateur with a sword.

Dezmund turns to her and arches his brows in enquiry – no arrogance, no boast, no smugness. He's only waiting to see if she would demand more.

Teodora smiles. "Hmm," she says. "You have certainly my interest, now. What are your plans, Messere Dezmund? What are you hoping Venice might offer you?"

 _"Right now I only want a place to stay for a while, out of sight preferably,"_ Dezmund answers and puts his blade away, sheeting it with a satisfying click. _"If my sword skills are any use to you… maybe I could stay here and offer some security."_

"Perhaps you could," Teodora agrees. La Rosa della Virtù doesn't require protection ordinarily – Teodora can keep her girls safe. But it is true that even the most confident customers behave better with a well-armed man watching the door – and should Dezmund's disregard for her own virtues be a habit and not an act he is working hard to maintain… perhaps it would even be a guardianship that comes with a few unpleasantries.

Aside the man's status as a wanted man and a murderer, of course.

"Your services as a guard for food and board, until further notice, at the guarantee of your good will and manners," Teodora says and sets her glass down. "Does that sound suitable?"

 _"It sounds fine to me,"_ Dezmund says. _"I can behave."_

Does he sell himself short, is he planning something, or is he desperate? Time would tell.

"Very well," Teodora says and turns to Leonardo, who quickly drags his enthralled eyes away from the swordsman. She smiles, knowing, and Leonardo looks away, abashed. "I do believe disguise is in order, then," she says and rises to her feet. "As you are a wanted man. Tell me, Messere Dezmund – have you ever worn a wig?"

 _"Not in a while,"_ Dezmund admits, eying her but without doubt. _"I doubt a wig will be enough to disguise me. No offence, but I'm a bit on the taller side."_

"A rare sight indeed, but not a completely unseen one. A wig, a change of clothes, a little bit of makeup… a mask, perhaps," Teodora smiles. "I know a number of ways to disguise a person, Messere, you will see. Leonardo, dear, would you like to help? You are such a deft hand with a makeup brush."

"Ah, yes, happily," Leonardo says and stands up as well. "So, Dezmund is welcome to stay here, at La Rosa della Virtù?"

"For as long as he can behave and work," Teodora promises, adding privately to herself, _and for as long as it takes me to unearth his secrets, for it seems he has many._ "But Leonardo, dear? You owe me."

"I have never been happier to be in debt, Madonna," Leonardo assures and turns to Dezmund. _"Does this seem suitable for you?"_ he asks, in awkward Arabic.

Dezmund smiles. _"This is fine,"_ he says, and Teodora can feel his eyes on her back as she moves towards the door to call for her girls. _"I think it's as good an offer as I am going to get. Thank you, Leonardo. I appreciate it – and I owe you one."_

"Oh, don't worry about it," Leonardo assures quickly. "It was my pleasure."

Oh, it surely was, Teodora muses, and reaches for a bell rope, ringing for her girls. Dezmund, interestingly, doesn't seem to mind Leonardo's thinly veiled fawning either, smiling to the man fondly – perhaps even a little too fondly, considering that they had apparently only just met.

Teodora clasps her prayer beads loosely in her hand, watching them, letting herself appreciate the loveliness of what looks to be mutual, unabashed attraction.

This would be interesting indeed.

 


	4. Chapter 4

It's a shame to cover such a beautiful face. If Teodora could have her way, she's rather underline his eyes with kohl to bring the warm amber out more, touch his lips with vermillion maybe, add a golden tint to his cheeks to bring out the colour of his skin more. Dezmund isn't quite olive-toned, there is little of greenish undertone to him – he's a warmer, earthier tone, hard to place and all the more exotic for it. It's not quite Arabic, it's something else, something elusive, and Teodora would rather enhance it than hide it.

But her purpose is to hide it, not enhance it, alas.

A wig goes on first. It's not as well-fitting as all that, and the horsehair of it looks rough compared to the man's own hair, short though it is. Dezmund would have curly hair if it's allowed to grow, no doubt wild and difficult to tame – the horsehair is too straight and stiff in comparison. Tied back it doesn't look terribly bad, but no doubt the man's own hair would look much better on him.

Should this turn into a long winded arrangement, she would have him grow it out.

 _"Why not just a hood?"_ Dezmund asks while sitting still for Leonardo's pleasure – the artist is gently covering the scar cutting through the man's lips.

"Men who hide under the hoods tend be to noticed and investigated – you will draw less attention wearing your features openly," Teodora says, loosening a few hairs around the edge of the wig to hide its transition. "The men pursuing you, do they know you with or without a beard?"

Dezmund runs a hand over his chin. _"Without,"_ he says in Arabic. _"I was barefaced."_

Shame. "Then you will let it grow out," Teodora decides, to which Leonardo sighs. "Now, clothing. Dressing you in Venetian clothes will only enhance your foreignness and make it more apparent. Hmm…"

She turns to check the clothing chest while Leonardo applies finishing touches to Dezmund's face, saying, "I think more than this and it will become noticeable. But this easy the scar is covered, and that's one of your memorable features, aside from your…" he gestures helplessly. "... features."

 _"Thank you,"_ Dezmund answers, amused. _"I appreciate the help."_

Probably not as much as Leonardo appreciated the excuse to touch and stare, Teodora thinks amusedly while she digs through the chest and then grasps it. For an establishment of women, they have quite a deal of men's clothes – discarded by hasty patrons or simply forgotten. Most of them are in local design, hose, breeches, shirts, doublets… but they have had their share of foreign travelers too. Ottomans, Spaniards, Greeks, Arabs, and even Indians…

And it so happens that by accident a gentleman from Delhi had been forced to escape la Rosa della Virtù through a window when his business partner – and father – had discovered where his son had disappeared to. In the process of escaping the young man had left his coat behind, a handsome piece of dark red cloth, which Teodora had kept in house when the gentleman had not returned for it.

It would be a little short on Dezmund compared to its original owner, for whom it had been a knee length, but who could tell the difference, really, when the article was so rarely seen even in Venice? And the clean lined coat with its firm neck would look very well on Dezmund – and foreign enough not to draw attention to the colour of Dezmund's skin.

Why, if push came to shove, Teodora could even claim the man an eunuch, hence his safe employment at a brothel. Unless, of course the man might become interested in other avenues of employment and of making actual money. Well, it's something to certainly keep in mind.

"Here," Teodora says, holding the coat up to be viewed. "I think this should fit you. I hope it is different enough from your usual clothes to make a difference?"

 _"It should do, yes,"_ Dezmund agrees, accepting the coat and examining it. _"I guess there's nothing to it but trying it on. Should I –?"_ He motions to his long tunic.

"Yes, it does look a little long. Take it off and I will have one of the girls shorten it for you," Teodora says and waits.

Dezmund doesn't hesitate – shows neither modesty not embarrassment. Leonardo isn't quite so sanguine, the poor man – doesn't seem to know whether he's allowed to look or not. Dezmund, shirtless and bare to the waist, is quite a sight. She'd not been wrong about him, Teodora is satisfied to find – he is indeed beautifully sculpted, with nary a hint of excess weight cushioning the flat planes and tempting valleys of his well toned body. His right arm isn't the only part of him marked with inky black. There is a more defined tattoo on his left arm, one of slashes and sharp points and curved angles – it makes the face of a woman with an ancient Egyptian design above it.

Is that who he is then, where he comes from – an Egyptian Arab perhaps?

Dezmund pulls the coat on, fastening the buttons in the front with the adjusted movements of a man used to articles of clothing with intricate lacings. Teodora considers him as he stands there, and – no. "The wig will not do at all. It must be curled or cut."

"Curled," Leonardo says quickly. "Or a slight wave perhaps. It will better cover the edge of it too, and look more natural."

"Yes, you are quite right," Teodora says and presses a finger under Dezmund's chin to lift it. Oh, the Lord had blessed this man with many fine angles, hadn't He? Were the man not about to enter her employ, she would have been tempted to see him to her own bed, just for the pleasure of stretching him out and seeing him react. Surely, just to see this man throw his head back in pleasure would be an act worthy of some worship.

"A slight wave," Teodora agrees, while Dezmund looks at her with interest. "And a suitable hat, perhaps a turban, if one can be found. Now, with the matter of clothing sorted out, let's see about your accommodations."

Leonardo sighs, looking at the younger man with some regret. "I suppose I will have to leave that to you," he says to Teodora and then changes his language. "I believe I have done what I can for you," he says apologetically. "Sister Teodora will take care of you now."

 _"Thank you, Leonardo,"_ Dezmund says. _"I really owe you one."_

"I think the robe you left at my workshop is more than covers this," Leonardo says and holds out his hand. "It was truly my pleasure to meet you, Dezmund. I wish you all the best."

 _"You too,"_ Dezmund says and clasps his hand, smiling warmly. " _And who knows, maybe we'll meet again. You never know."_

"I would like that," Leonardo says, wistful.

Teodora wonders if there's a way to start charging men for emotional congress – Leonardo is quite in bed already, as far as that goes. Ah well. "It was a pleasure, as always, Leonardo. Come again, dear."

"Sister," he says and moved to kiss her cheeks. "I bid you a good night, then."

The way Dezmund looks after the artist is a little wistful in its own right, and right then Teodora decides to put him in the first floor backroom, near the back entrance, just in case – it was Cielo's room once, for reasons of quick escape… and looking at things now, it might be needed in the future.

"Come, darling," she says and holds out her arm to Dezmund as the man finishes strapping his sword back on. "Let us get you situated."

* * *

 

Teodora shows Dezmund his room, the other rooms in the house, where everything is, where not to go, laying down the rules he is to follow. The man listens carefully and agrees to everything, promising to behave and introducing himself to the girls idling in the brothel in a very awkward Italian, "I am Dezmund. It is pleasure," and bowing.

Already Teodora can tell her girls will make trouble with him – Enrica lights up like someone had handed her jewels to play with, Lorena goes low-lidded and purrs her introductions as Dezmund kisses her hand, and Doretta goes breathy and eager. Some of it is play acting, trying to throw Dezmund off balance and to make him react, but enough of it is honest to be trouble.

"It is late and you seem weary," Teodora then says to Dezmund. "Have this night to your leisure; rest and sleep late – tomorrow, you will stand guard."

 _"Yes, Sister Teodora,"_ Dezmund says. _"Thank you."_

"Oh, I can help you lay down, teach you a few choice words of Italian while I am at it –" Enrica offers eagerly, but stops as Teodora lays a hand on her shoulder, drawing the girls away.

"Good night, ladies," Dezmund says, awkward and quite charming with his terrible accent. The girls coo at him but let him go, turning to Teodora only once he is out of sight.

"Dezmund is a wanted man," Teodora says and the ladies all become serious at once. "Leonardo told me he is a recent arrival from Cyprus and stowed away on a ship in secret – but people are aware he is here and are looking for him. I want you to go to the harbour and find out more – do not implicate us, but if you happen to hear stories of a wanted Arab or a Turk…"

She trails away, and the girls exchange looks, curious and excited. No one argues.

"Go, ladies," Teodora says with a nod. "Bring me a word as soon as you find out anything. And tell the same to others working the streets. Go, my children."

Teodora watches the girls head to work and then considers the mood of the house. Most of the girls aren't there, they are working the streets, and so Teodora cannot yet know how they might react – but so far, all seems calm.

Time would tell if things would remain thus, but for now, Teodora heads to check the ledger and then ventures upstairs to check the rooms in use. Messere Sabbadin and Mirella are, it sounds like, asleep – which Teodora wouldn't usually allow, they aren't running a wayhouse, and the rooms have better use… but it's a quiet night, and Messere Sabbadin does pay so very well.

Messere Capello, on the other hand, is reading poetry to Imelda, the poor lad; he'd be charged by the hour for it, but still he persists. Well, if this is how he wishes to spend his father's fortunes… who is Teodora to tell him no?

Teodora listens to the lad whispering sweet nonsense to Imelda for a while and then moves on. Perhaps a slight reduction of charge, for the rest of the night, just this once.

World needs more sweet things, after all – and his poetry is quite lovely, regardless of how hopeless a target he's aiming it at.

* * *

 

Dezmund settles into his duties as the guard of la Rosa della Virtù with ease. He treats the ladies kindly even when they try to tempt him in various ways, either to make a fool of himself or of others, and when the girls make fun at his expense, he bears it with patience and even amusement.

He doesn't treat the ladies roughly, in fact he doesn't even touch them unless invited to – and even then it takes not an inconsiderable amount of wheedling and imploring. "Oh, Messere Dezmund, please – won't you help with my corset?" and, "Messere, would you lace up my dress," and, "Oh, my poor neck, it is killing me – would you, Dezmund, please? You have such big powerful hands, I'm sure they're quite magical when applied to a massage," at which point Teodora thinks to put an end to it - the man is supposed to be on watch, after all.

Only then she catches Rubina groaning in unabashed enjoyment as Dezmund applies his marked hands on her bare shoulders, and the noise is so great it makes the few patrons present blush with shame. The customers present then proceed to apply themselves – and their purses – quite determinedly to proving that they too can produce such noises from a woman. So it works quite well in the end.

Still, though Dezmund sometimes plays right into the ladies' hands, he seeks to bed none of them. Even when there are open offers at the end of the day and Teodora gives him leave to rest, he accepts none of them, declining even Lorena, their objectively loveliest courtesan.

"I do not mind my girls seeking their own pleasure, as long as they do it on their own time and take appropriate care," Teodora comments to him. "In fact, I welcome it, all pleasure is a gift from God and should be enjoyed as such."

 _"That's nice,"_ Dezmund says, scratching at the edge of the wig, the horsehair now curled artistically so that it falls in waves to his shoulders.

"You agree? Then why refuse?" Teodora asks, and when he only hums, she presses, "Are you not interested at all in women, then? Be honest, child, I don't judge."

 _"Women are fine. I'm just not sure about sleeping with people I work with,"_ Dezmund admits – but he looks away when he says it, not quite sincere.

Teodora arches her brows at the man, doubtful. Dezmund glances at her and then admits, _"I don't want to be rude."_

"Forget rude, dear – be truthful," Teodora says. "If you have beliefs or desires that abstain you, I would know now and then tell the girls to cease bothering you."

Dezmund sighs and then says, _"I'm sorry, but I don't want to be infected with what Mirella and Rubina have – and if I reject them, and accept others, it just comes across really rude."_

Teodora stares at him and then scowls. _"My girls are clean – there is no syphilis in this house!"_ she hisses in her awkward Arabic, to avoid being overheard by the girls or customers.

 _"It's not that – it's something more minor. Gonorrhea, I think,"_ Dezmund says soothingly. _"But I'd still rather not have to deal with it personally."_

Teodora stares a breath at that and looks at the girls in question. Neither has said anything, and she hasn't seen any signs of it. "How do you know?" she asks in Italian.

Dezmund coughs. _"I just do – you don't have to believe me, but for now, I'd rather not insult anyone here by seemingly picking and choosing between them, when they're all lovely."_

Teodora stares after him, not sure if she's insulted on the behalf of her girls or not. But, ultimately, concern wins out.

"Doretta," she calls out. "Come here, dear, I have a errand for you for tomorrow. I want you to go and track down doctor Dinapoli."

"Oh?" she asks, casting a look at her sisters. "Is someone… unwell, Sister Teodora?"

"Let us hope not, but I want all the girls checked, thoroughly," Teodora says firmly. "First thing tomorrow, if you please, Doretta."

She's not sure what it would mean, if Dezmund could truly tell at a glance if woman was afflicted or not, but… it would certainly be useful a gift if it was applicable to customers also.

The man is really proving out to be an interesting puzzle, isn't he?

* * *

 

It's nearly four days after Teodora hired Dezmund that the rumours of him finally reach the ears of Teodora's girls, and through them to her. And though she's expected something bad – the man claimed to be wanted for murder after all, it couldn't be anything good – what she actually hears is not what she expects.

"It's the Knights of Rhodes," Enrica tells her. "Their ship is still in quarantine and will be for another three weeks, but I heard from the harbour master that they have sent enquiries about a man they are looking for – a young Ottoman Turk in fine clothes, with short hair and scar on his lip. They want him alive and unharmed – for questioning."

"No mention of murder?" Teodora asks, frowning. Knights of Rhodes – or as they used to be called… Knights Hospitalier.

"No, Sister – none," Enrica says but she's too excited for that to have been all, leaning in eagerly and continuing, "But they are very eager to find him – they offer quite the reward for any word of him or his whereabouts."

Teodora hums, wondering if she ought to send a word to Antonio, to warn him and his thieves from chasing the reward – and how concerned she should be for harbouring a fugitive so sought after. Many Assassins had bounties on their heads, of course – but they were Assassins, her kin. She doesn't know Dezmund that well, not yet.

"Do you know how high his bounty is?" Teodora asks and Enrica tells her.

"There is more," she adds eagerly, almost gleefully. "Another ship came earlier from Cyprus, and they brought with them the most intriguing news. There was an _incident_ in Cyprus, some time ago, with which the Knights of Rhodes were involved in, and not just them. Number of Ottomans were involved too – it sounded to me as if there was a battle."

Teodora frowns slightly at that. It would explain Dezmund's claim to murder, and that it was self-defence. "I assume men died," Teodora says. "Bless their souls."

"Yes, poor men," Enrica says, not particularly sympathetic. "But hear this, Sister – the group was led by an Ottoman prince."

Teodora looks at her sharply. "A prince?" she asks. "You are certain it wasn't just a tale grown taller in the telling?" And surely, Dezmund would be wanted for more than questioning if he had killed Ottoman royalty.

"Could be – but that's not the most interesting part, Sister, not at all," Enrica says, almost quivering now. "You see, the Ottoman prince was said to be quite young, on his twenty third summer. And after the incident in Rhodos... he has gone _missing!"_


	5. Chapter 5

Doctor Dinapoli comes to check the girls the day after Teodora got the news of the Ottoman prince, while she is still trying to think what to do with the news. It could be only rumours, and Dezmund only a bystander – or perhaps a skilled courtier, or a soldier, caught in the incident and then fleeing for his life, abandoning his post and betraying his prince…

Doctor Dinapoli's visit is frankly a welcome distraction. He comes with his cart as per usual, and the girls greet him with a mixture of warmth and wariness – though well-trusted and discreet, his visit usually means only one thing.

"Doctor," Teodora greets the man, kissing his cheek. "Thank you for coming on such a short notice – I know this is earlier than usual "

"Never you mind that, my dear – it's always a pleasure," the old man says and pats her hand fondly. "How have you been, Sister – you and your congregation?"

They talk pleasantries while the doctor sets up in one of the cleaner rooms for his examinations. Dezmund watches the proceedings from the side with a curious expression, but does nothing to push himself to the forefront – only amiably shifting to make nice to Greta as the girl works her way to his side.

"A brother in your sisterhood?" Doctor Dinapoli asks politely. "He should go either first or last, in that case."

"Dezmund isn't in the service," Teodora says and looks to the man in question. "I don't think he needs to be examined – do you, my child?"

 _"I'm fine,"_ Dezmund assures her in Arabic. _"I'm curious about how you treat these sort of things here, though."_

Teodora arches her brows. "Do you want to watch, then?" She asks, a little amused, and around her the girls titter, thrilled and embarrassed both.

"No," Dezmund says, blushing fetchingly. _"I'm just – the medicine. I've heard – things about local medicine."_

And judging by his voice, the things he'd heard weren't very good. Wondering about Ottoman medical practices, Teodora looks to doctor Dinapoli, who is eying Dezmund with great interest. "You will proceed with the usual course, examinations first and then treatment plans after?"

"Yes, of course," the aged doctor nods, turning to her.

"Very well," Teodora says. "Dezmund needs no examination, but he's expressed interest in the methods of treatment – is there an issue with him joining in on the discussion after?"

"No, no, I will perform examinations in private and we can deal with the rest after in the drawing room, if treatment is necessary – it is all perfectly chaste, after examinations are done," doctor Dinapoli says.

"Very well, let's proceed then. Dora, you go first."

All told, the examinations take the better part of the day. Teodora has closed la Rosa della Virtù for the day, of course, it wouldn't do to have patrons underfoot while the girls are going through potential medical proceedings. There are still people by the fire, but Dezmund makes for an excellent deterrent – his awkwardly spoken, "No entry," and, "Closed today," and "Come tomorrow," brook no arguments just for the difficulty of language – he just politely pretends not to understand and sends people away with cheerful, if completely oblivious, smiles.

Teodora waits with the man and with young Greta in the drawing room, eventually joined by those girls whose examinations are done. Teodora keeps an eye on them, but everyone seems to be in good humour – doctor Dinapoli had always been perfectly understanding and courteous with them, unlike some other doctors who's Teodora had first tried and whom she'd then snubbed for the crudeness of manner or roughness of touch. Doctor Dinapoli is well past the age where a bit of bare skin might make him lose his professional courtesy, thankfully.

 _"Do you have these sort of examinations done often?"_ Dezmund asks while they wait.

"Once every month and whenever there is suspicion of infection," Teodora says. "La Rosa della Virtù prides herself on being clean, and I intend to keep that reputation."

 _"Sensible,"_ Dezmund says, looking at Greta, who is showing him her toy. "It is lovely," he says awkwardly in Italian.

"It is broken – can you fix it?" the girl asks, adopting the same awkward accent.

Dezmund smiles. "Let's see," he says, and quickly she hops to sit at his side.

Teodora considers him. She wouldn't call his manner princely, exactly – but he is kind and courteous, there is no denying that. He does have certain delicacy of manner – or perhaps lack of arrogance and the manners born from it. Humble, one might call him – only he is very aware of his looks and not beyond taking compliments for them. A humble man would demur.

There is a quality in him, which is hard to name and is regardless alluring. A certain… ease. Despite the fact that his situation is far from the most comfortable one – especially compared to that a prince might be accustomed to, he never seems displeased or dissatisfied. No, in fact, no matter what tricks the girls play on him and how he might be embarrassed in their company, he always seems to be as if exactly where he wants to be. It makes the girls lean towards him like plants to the last rays of the sun, and it seems like young Greta feels it too.

And it is a powerful thing, to look at someone, anyone, and feel as though they are perfectly content to be there, like they wouldn't for the world be anywhere else but right where they are. It makes one feel immensely important.

Teodora strokes her fingers over her cup, watching them and wondering. It could be the mannerisms taught to a prince who serves his people… but it could also be the training of a courtier, taught to please and fawn.

The examinations run their course and are eventually finished, Doctor Dinapoli letting the last girl out with a smile and then turning to Teodora. All the girls stay to hear the results – there are no secrets of this sort in Teodora's house, and theirs is a sisterhood. Teodora doesn't tolerate gossip or shunning in her congregation.

"Well, all your girls are in good health," the doctor says. "But there is no getting around it – Mirella and Rubina both have the clap. Early stages yet, but it's unmistakable."

Teodora glances at the girls, both of whom have gone pale and who are sharing alarmed looks. Then Teodora looks at Dezmund – who had named them specifically.

"Now, I have all the required medicine ready," doctor Dinapoli says soothingly. "We can have the first round of treatments right now – and if need be, a bleeding to soothe the humours – and then subsequent treatments next week."

Mirella and Rubina both pale a little further, for which Teodora cannot blame them. Not only is the treatment expensive, but it is also rather painful, going by the accounts of those who have gone through it.

 _"What is the treatment?"_ Dezmund asks, while Teodora leans back, frowning.

Doctor Dinapoli clears his throat and Teodora translates Dezmund's question. The doctor nods and explains, "Application of mercury directly, of course, a most effective treatment for diseases of this sort. Have you studied medicine, young man?"

Dezmund ignores the question, asking one of his own instead _. "Application of mercury directly where?"_ he looks a little alarmed when he asks it. Again, Teodora translates for him.

"The point of infection, of course," doctor Dinapoli says. "It is commonly the most effective cure for ailments of the loins."

Dezmund seems almost pained to hear it – and the look he aims at Teodora is nothing short of plaintive.

"What is it, my son?" Teodora asks.

_"Mercury is poisonous. It's not going to cure anybody – it will just make them sicker."_

Teodora frowns and turns to doctor Dinapoli, who shares a look with her once she has finished translating.  "Mercury is strong, as medicine goes," he admits slowly. "Which is why I only use it in the most dire cases and to treat only the most persistent ailments. It is true that taking too much of it is lethal, but so can be said of many other treatments, which are medicinal in small quantities but poisonous in great ones."

Teodora turns to Dezmund for his reaction, and he closed his eyes, shaking his head. This makes Teodora hesitate. "Is there another treatment for the ailment – one that doesn't use mercury?" she asks.

"None as effective," Doctor Dinapoli says apologetically. "Only mercury has proven to stamp such diseases long term, ceasing the production of discharge and returning the body's humours into order. It also soothes the uterus, stopping any undue wandering. It is the best thing in these cases, I assure you."

Dezmund lets out a slight sputter at that. _"I'm sorry – what?"_ he demands and then asks again in Italian, "What?"

"Young man," the doctor says, a little impatient now at his incredulous tone. "I have studied medicine all my life – including great many works from the Arabies – I promise, I know what I'm talking about."

Teodora looks between them and then hums, thinking back to previous cases of gonorrhea and even the one case of syphilis they had. All had been treated with mercury. The girl with syphilis had died due to the imbalance of humours, and of the girls with gonorrhea, all had eventually proven unfit for the work, having grown weak and slow in the course of the ailment – or scarred so badly that lovemaking only brought terrible pain upon them.

Teodora looks at Dezmund and asks again, "Is there another treatment?"

Doctor Dinapoli frowns, but doesn't object. Dezmund looks between them, and then at Mirella and Rubina, both of whom are looking deeply concerned now. _"Yes,"_ he says then and looks to Teodora. _"But I need to make the medicine for it."_

Teodora leans back in her seat, considering him. Then she looks at doctor Dinapoli, who looks in part affronted and in part intrigued, stroking his thick white beard.

"Is this some new Arabian treatment?" the doctor asks.

 _"You could say that,"_ Dezmund says and looks at Teodora. _"For Mirella's and Rubina's sake, please let me try."_

"Doctor Dinapoli?" Teodora asks, after translating.

"If there is an alternative medicine, I am curious to see it made," doctor Dinapoli admits. "Gonorrhea isn't an immediately fatal, though it is uncomfortable even in early stages. If the girls are willing to wait…"

Teodora looks at Dezmund, who meets her eyes levelly – not with confidence, but determination. Finally, she nods. "Very well," she says. "Go ahead."

Dezmund nods and stands up, doctor Dinapoli doing the same. "Messere Dezmund, wasn't it? I have a well-stocked cart – you may use my supplies if you'd like."

"Thank you," Dezmund says in awkward Italian and turns to leave. "But pantry, first."

* * *

 

While Dezmund brews a strange concoction of mould in the following week, Teodora stews privately with her suspicions.

Dezmund is a learned man, no doubt about that – though not the one eager to share his knowledge, from what Teodora can see. Even while doctor Dinapoli tried to learn more of the young man's education and knowledge, Dezmund says very little about where he'd learned or what – leaning onto the language barrier heavily, and sometimes even claiming he couldn't understand the doctor, even though he clearly could. It would be amusing, if the implications weren't so worrying.

The Hospitaliers are still in quarantine by the harbour, but more information had come in concerning the Ottoman prince – and even worse news. The prince had, according to stories, ran from his home after a failed attempt to capture the Ottoman throne the year before – when Sultan Mehmed II had died. He'd failed in the attempt. Teodora had heard some of it before, but by then the issue was already settled – and prince Cem defeated.

Only now it turns out that prince Cem had ran to Cyprus, seeking shelter with the Knights Hospitalier – and according to the rumour… it had not gone well for him. People are of two minds whether the man is still alive and missing... or if he's dead after the incident in Cyprus. In either case, the Ottomans likely would prefer him dead.

Dezmund doesn't seem like a man who might've been a sultan, had fortune favored him in a war. And yet… the Knights Hospitalier are undoubtedly looking for him.

And now it turns out the man has some training in hitherto unknown medicine, and ability tell disease at a glance. What next, will she find the man whipping together a Mithridate in her kitchen?

What a vexing puzzle – and not the one she is keen on taking apart while he is working on a cure for her girls. Instead, she tells the ladies to keep their ears to the ground – and La Rosa della Virtù's secrets to themselves. And once the Hospitaliers would be out of quarantine and loose upon Venice, they were to be led off and to other brothels, should they seek company on lonely nights.

Dezmund produces the cure on the seventh day after starting – a good sign, to be sure – and under doctor Dinapoli's a little _too_ watchful eye, Mirella and Rubina take their medicine. Mirella reports it to be extremely vile, like a soup of powdered shoes, and Rubina is sick to her stomach at first. Still, they drink their medicine at Dezmund's urging every day, twice a day, until the man is satisfied. Doctor Dinapoli is a little less confident, and performs examinations every day until he's forced to pronounce both women cured of the ailment.

"It is incredible," the man says. "A concoction of mould, who would have thought of it! I must try it on my other patients – and if it works on gonorrhea, perhaps it will work on other things as well. Perhaps even syphilis!"

He congratulates and thanks Dezmund profusely, which the man bears with less grace than he does the compliments to his good looks.

 _"That was probably very stupid of me,"_ he murmurs, later, more to himself then to Teodora, while doctor Dinapoli packs his things to leave. _"But since I'm here, I might as well do something good for a change."_

Teodora looks at him and he shrugs, almost fatalistic, and heads back inside, leaving Teodora to pay the doctor for his services – which the man refuses, on the count of the new medicine he has.

"Learning and knowledge is the greatest reward," the doctor says. "This just goes to show – medicine is never done, and neither are we doctors."

"Indeed, doctor," Teodora agrees and then watches him bustle off with his hand cart, wondering.

* * *

 

Dezmund later identifies the source offor the ailment as well – whispering in the ear of Dora, who carries the word to Teodora while the man stays in the front hall, keeping an eye on the patrons milling about.

Messere Sabbadin also has the clap – and is in the process of hiring Mirella again, for another night of no doubt well paid, if rather demanding, fun.

Teodora is no stranger to throwing diseased patrons out or barring them entry – the whorehouses of Venice tend to keep each other informed in such cases, so more often than not by word of mouth they know who to refuse. Messere Sabbadin, though…

He'd been a very good patron, though brusque in his manner, he's never truly unkind to the girls – though he can be impatient with them if they come across as stupid. He's also very wealthy, an owner of several trading ships. Teodora would hate to lose him as a patron of La Rosa della Virtù.

After thinking it through, Teodora tells Dora to distract Messere Sabbadin for as long as she can and to send Dezmund to her. He arrives promptly, hand loosely on his sword hilt, his coat neat despite the way he usually lounges about in the front hall.

"That medicine you made," Teodora asks. "Is there any left?"

 _"Yes, I made extra in case we needed more,"_ Dezmund says. _"Should I go get it?"_

"Yes, please – and then join me and Messere Sabbadin in the drawing room."

Getting the gentleman alone with her when he had someone else in his sights wasn't easy, but Teodora offers him an apologetic, "I'm afraid Mirella has an appointment shortly – please, let me entertain you until she is free again," which doesn't soothe the man much, but gets him away from the hall and from the hearing range of other patrons.

"Mirella speaks highly of you," Teodora says while serving the man drinks. "I'm glad you seem to have found a suitable partner among my girls."

 Messere Sabbadin eyes the goblet for a moment and then accepts it in his big hand, swirling the liquid inside. "It's a fine establishment," he says somewhat gruffly. "Your girls are clean and well-behaved."

"Thank you for your kind words – we try to maintain a level of cleanliness," Teodora says, smiling.

Making conversion with the man isn't easy – it's obvious it's not her he wants, but he makes nice enough until they're finally interrupted by Dezmund at the door, knocking and entering at Teodora's word.

Sabbadin goes immediately wary at the sight of him – and his sword. "It's there a problem?" he demands.

"No, of course not," Teodora says quickly, motioning Dezmund to come forward. "But I admit, I wished to speak to you alone for a reason."

"Why is he here?" Sabbadin demands, rising to his feet and glaring at Dezmund. Sabbadin is a big man, broad in shoulder and chest, with a great black beard and hair, but Dezmund is taller, and the strict lines of his coat make him seem militant.

Sabbadin scowls. "I have been nothing but good with your girls, Sister Teodora – why the ambush?"

"Not an ambush, Messere Sabbadin – a courtesy," Teodora says, motioning him to sit down. "Please."

Dezmund does and days nothing, waiting until the big man sits down. Sabbadin grumbles. "I did wonder about you," he says and waves a finger at Dezmund. "You think me an Arab too, don't you? Is that what this is about? I know this house is a bit unique, with you at the head of it – a nun – but –"

Teodora blinks. It's true enough, Messere Sabbadin dresses in middle eastern fashion, favouring kaftans and wearing taqiyah, but she's never mistaken him for an Arab for it – and would not have minded particularly if he were. "Messere Sabbadin, I know you aren't," Teodora says. "Your family comes from Bologna, does it not?"

The man frowns. "How do you know that?"

"It's a Bolognese name, yes?" Teodora says, wondering what issues the man might be struggling with, what demons. She knows he's a widower, his wife was from across the sea, and in the city he's known as the Arabian Merchant, despite being of Italian origins, but – that is a question for a later time, perhaps to be aimed at Mirella, who might be able to soothe the man's obviously restless spirit. "I assure you, this has nothing to do with your beliefs, Messere, and no one is here to neither judge nor question you. It's only the matter of health, your health in particular."

"What?" the man demands, now confused.

Teodora waits until she's sure he's calm enough before answering. "Mirella and Rubina both had the clap – and we are sadly certain your have it too."

That is not what the man was expecting, and he didn't like heading it. "Your girls gave me a disease?!" He demands and rises to his feet again, angry.

That's a little much, now. "No," Teodora says sharply. "You gave it to them. You visited a brothel less clean than this one, contacted the clap and brought it to my house – _sit down,_ Messere."

Messere Sabbadin sits down.

Teodora smiles. "Thank you. Now, I am informing you of this not only as a courtesy, as you have been a good patron for my girls… but to offer you aid also."

"What kind of aid?" Sabbadin asks suspiciously.

"Mirella and Rubina were both cured of their ailments," Teodora explains. "Via a new treatment, which does not use mercury – and if you wish to keep patronising my house, I would have you take it as well."

The big man scowls at her suspiciously, and then looks up as Dezmund puts a jar on the table between them. _"One teaspoon twice a day, for at least a week,"_ he says in Arabic. _"And please, don't sleep with anyone during or for a week after the treatment, until the medicine has had the chance to work."_

Teodora translates, though she doubts she needs to. "If you have doubts, seek out doctor Dinapoli – he supervised Mirella's and Rubina's treatment," she adds.

Sabbadin looks suspicious and confused as he reaches for the jar, opening it and peering inside. "That looks foul," he mutters and then says in accented Arabic, _"Where do you come from, boy? I can't place your accent."_

Dezmund smiles. _"Many places,"_ he says. _"A story for another time perhaps – please, take the medicine."_

Sabbadin hesitates and then closes the lid of the jar. He rises without further word and then heads out of the room – taking the medicine with him.

Teodora and Dezmund are quiet for a time.

 _"That went well,"_ Dezmund then comments.

"Mm," Teodora answers and then looks at him. "Can you tell when someone has syphilis?"

Dezmund hums. _"Probably. Why?"_

"Could your medicine cure it like doctor Dinapoli thinks?"

Dezmund hums. _"Probably, if the recipient isn't allergic to the cure,"_ he admits. _"Why?"_

"For future reference," Teodora says and looks him over. Still young, still beautiful, and still a mystery – and now, not the one she is willing to let slip through her fingers. No, indeed, after this… she must keep him for as long as she can. Which means she would have to protect him.

Well, it's nothing she doesn't already do for her girls anyway. And with his sword skills too… hmm...

"I must write a letter," Teodora murmurs. "Thank you, my child. You may return to your duties."

"Sister Teodora," Dezmund says in Italian and bows his way out of the drawing room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Desmond somehow ends up playing bit of a doctor in all of my stories lately, huh.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is gonna have probably lot of sexual situations later on. Tags and ships will be added as they begin applying to the story.


End file.
